Christopher Wood: James Bond and Moonraker

It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that the health of the officer is being systematically undermined by his mode de vivre . [‘Fancifully put,’ thought Bond. ‘What is happening in Harley Street these days?’] It is strongly recommended that if his working efficiency is not to be seriously impaired he cease smoking immediately and cut down his intake of spirits. A change to wine would be preferential and total abstinence ideal.

Unequivocal. That was the least that could be said of the report. M had made no strictures but suggested that Bond consider the implications of his check-up. Seriously.

James Bond decided to do so as he smoked his fiftieth cigarette of the day. He slid it between his lips, snapped the gunmetal case shut and reached for his battered Ronson. The small, orgasmic flame flickered and he drew the smoke in greedily. He felt in perfect shape, and when he did not he would take whatever action he felt necessary of his own accord. Medicals were for overweight men who sat behind desks telling other people to do things. He wondered how most doctors would make out under their own stethoscopes.

Smoking was also, for Bond, part of the ritual of flying, and he enjoyed rituals. He enjoyed a well-made vodka martini too. He looked round the cabin of the eight-seater private jet that had been sent to speed him back from Dakar and located a small refrigerator that looked promising. It was tucked just behind the entrance to the cramped pilot’s cabin and below a rack of glossy magazines that Bond had already flicked through. With an intuition that Bond found wholly admirable the stewardess appeared through the opening and slid the door closed behind her. She was a tall girl with a wide, sensuous mouth and well-shaped breasts. Her smile had not been over-used flying the routes followed by the commercial airlines and it came across as a genuine expression of a desire to please. Her clothing was simple. A beautifully cut grey woollen skirt and a white silk shirt with matching stock.

‘Would you like a drink?’ she said.

Bond returned her smile. ‘I knew you were a mind reader. Do we have any Gordon’s gin or a grain-based vodka?’

‘I don’t know about the grain-based.’ She bent down to open the refrigerator and Bond enjoyed the firm rounding of her haunches. ‘I thought vodka was made from potatoes.’

‘A lot of it is.’

The girl stood up with a bottle of Gordon’s in her hand. ‘That’s all we have, I’m afraid. Unless you’d like whisky?’

‘No, thank you. I’ll take four measures of Gordon’s with a smidgin of dry martini, shaken till it’s ice cold. If you can lay your hands on a long shave of lemon peel, my happiness will be complete.’

The girl looked down at him approvingly. ‘You know what you like.’

‘I think that makes it easier for everybody,’ said Bond. He held her glance for a second longer than was necessary and expelled two dragon’s breaths of smoke through his nostrils. ‘How long have you been working for Transcontinental?’

The girl went about mixing the drink. ‘Only a few weeks. It took so long to get through security clearance.’

‘I thought I hadn’t seen you,’ said Bond thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t recognize the crew either.’

‘They’re like me,’ she said. ‘Recent arrivals.’ She flashed her bewitching smile and advanced towards him with the drink on a circular silver tray.

Bond took it and felt the satisfying coldness of the glass against his fingertips. ‘Thank you.’ He turned his head and smiled as the girl slipped into the seat beside him. She leant back and drew up a knee provocatively. ‘Delicious,’ said Bond.

‘You haven’t tasted it yet,’ said the girl.

‘I wasn’t talking about the drink.’ Bond raised the glass to his lips and drunk. As a substitute it was exceptionally good. He turned to the girl again. ‘I may never travel with anyone else.’

‘You’re so right, Mr Bond.’ A small automatic had appeared from beneath the silver tray and was pointing at the pit of his stomach. The blunt muzzle did not flinch.

Bond sighed. ‘You’re a grave disappointment to me. I was hoping for a look of surprise when I mentioned Transcontinental.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘You’re supposed to be employed by Transworld.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ The girl’s voice was brittle, within a decibel of breaking. She was under strain. Big strain. She had, been given a job at the very limit of her capabilities. It was doubtful whether she could carry it through. Bond realized that she was supposed to kill him. The skilfully executed ground-level hijack at Dakar Airport, the substitution of the crews. It had all been leading up to this moment. The girl’s lips were pressed tight together. She was trying to find the courage to pull the trigger.

Bond jerked the glass away from his mouth and the muzzle of the automatic tilted defensively. At the exact instant that the gun moved, Bond lashed out with the back of his fist and struck solidly against the hand that was holding it. The girl let out a cry of pain and surprise and the automatic spun across to the other side of the cabin. Bond clipped the girl smartly against the jaw and was launching himself for the gun when the door to the pilot’s cabin slid open. The co-pilot took in the situation at a glance and hurled himself forward to grapple with Bond. Bond was temporarily crushed against one of the seats and then broke free to unleash a right cross that bludgeoned the side of the man’s cheek. There was a sharp crack and a grunt of annoyance rather than pain, and the co-pilot came forward again. He was a big man with a parachute strapped to his back and it occurred to Bond that this was an adjunct well worth having in his present situation. He feinted to dive for the gun and as the co-pilot tried to intercept lashed out with his foot for the man’s groin. The aeroplane lurched and Bond’s blow was diverted by the thigh. He fell back, hitting the wall of the plane. Before he could move again, the co-pilot was on him, grappling for his throat. One hand made contact and the other reached above Bond’s head. There was a grinding noise and a rush of air that threatened to suck Bond from the cabin. The co-pilot had opened the emergency door that Bond was leaning against. Bond could feel himself poised on the brink of space with the terrifying void behind him. His hands stretched out to grip the sides of the door opening and the screaming wind tried to tear the clothes from his back. It was taking every ounce of strength that he possessed to stay where he was. The co-pilot saw that Bond was at his mercy and took a step back to deliver the blow that would launch him into space. It was at this instant that the plane entered an area of turbulence, and the floor tilted up towards Bond. He jerked himself sideways and as the.plane twitched again, braced his right shoulder against the edge of the door opening. His adversary was launched forward and Bond did no more than guide him into the space he himself had so recently vacated. There was hardly time for a scream of realization and fear to form itself in the man’s throat before he was hurtling earthwards, his arms and legs flailing against empty air.

Bond stood braced in the open doorway and looked down, feeling that the wind was pulling his hair out by the roots. Beneath him the co-pilot had conquered his initial panic and was planing down with arms and legs outspread in the classic free-fall position. Bond ground his teeth and prepared to pull away from the terrifying suction that was bent on prising free his grip. At that instant two powerful hands smote him on the shoulders and thrust him into space.

In a nightmare there is a horrible moment when the victim suddenly finds himself suspended in mid-air, his heart seeming to fall faster than the rest of his body. For Bond this was terrifying reality as he plunged earthwards. Far below him was a distant patch of brown which could be mountain or desert. It made no difference. Either would serve equally well as a graveyard. Bond fought panic and forced his arms and legs apart to try to achieve some stability in the air. One chance meeting with the crack Red Devils free-fall parachuting team when on a refresher course with the Parachute Brigade at Aldershot had hardly prepared him for the situation he now found himself in. There was a million miles between principle, no matter how well explained, and reality. This was not the moment he would have chosen to find out how good a pupil he had been.